


Muscle Memory

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's just woken up on his first free day since being awakened and he's finding everything isn't lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muscle Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended for friendship only, but I guess it could be preslash if you squint.

The first morning he woke up in a normal bed and by himself was pure muscle memory. His eyes came open like the trumpet at Camp LeHigh was playing and after only a second or two of recollection of the last few days memories he was out of bed. Despite the unfamiliar room the motions were mechanical. He dressed in the clothes provided – Steve’s clothes, neatly folded – on the dresser. His own bed things took their place, folded like they were pressed. He made the bed, could hear his old dad telling him to tuck in the corners. “Yes sir,” he said to the voices in his head.

His toilet things took longer. He brushed, washed – eyeing the shower, but he’d had one last night – and found a horsehair brush and straight razor and cream. He’d been shaving since seventeen and he could remember Steve teaching him while he stood on tip toe to look high enough into the mirror, just before his growth spurt. _Clack, clack_ in the basin, the cream fell away and the razor came clean and he could still smell the scent of the water and of the barracks if he tried just right.

Next was his hair. It was too long and made his thoughts turn painful He found barbers clippers in the drawer and using two mirrors he began to cut. It was habit. He thought about how he’d always cut his own hair in the war. Sometimes he helped the other Howling Commando’s, helped Steve. _Snip, snip, snip,_ each lock fell into the empty sink. They made ringlets of the past. It was almost like a baptism, although held no grand ideals concerning his own soul any longer.

The back was a little harder on his own but he managed. He’d find a barber (… _do they still have those,_ he wondered) to clean it u. When he was done he looked – really looked – at his reflection for the first time in nearly seventy-five years.

He was clean shaven, he was handsome. He didn’t smile but he knew his smile could charm women. Make the dame’s swoon. He had a voice to match, to make them wet, to fall in love, to laugh. Whatever he’d wanted. He frowned.

He was wearing an undershirt. It clung to his muscles, exposed his arms. He looked over his right arm. Pink, healthy, real. Then his left.

Cold. Steel. A fabrication.

An abomination.

Worst of all, proof.

He raised his arm, watched the movement in the mirror. He moved his fingers, watched the metal gleam.

His eyes travelled up and he looked at the seam where flesh met steel, at the gentle ridge of scar tissue no one had bothered to remove.

Real. Too real.

His left hand made a fist before the thought was fully formed and the mirror shattered. Shards of glass fell into the sink and around his feet, the sounds delicate and hateful. His arm disappeared into the medicine cabinet, to look further past the glass to the crunched and destroyed wood, splinters around the steel edge. He couldn’t look anymore and covered his face. At least he didn’t cry.

He stepped and pain spiked up his leg. Warm and wet and familiar he knew he was bleeding. He was sitting on the toilet, sock discarded and foot on knee when a knock came at the door.

“Come in,’ he said, looking at the piece of glass. It wasn’t big, but it was in deep enough to cause a lot of blood. The door opened as he ripped it out, a small gush of blood cascading in a wave of drops onto the tiles.

“Bucky?”

He ignored it as he stemmed the blood flow with his thumb and forefinger. He reached back to the drawer where he found the scissors and took out a sewing kit. Steve asked no more questions and left the room.

With deft motions Bucky sewed himself up with black thread. Each push of the needle and pull through flesh burned and stung and ached in a too familiar way. It made him think of field dressing his wounds with the boys, and by himself with a more mechanical mind. He slapped a band aid over it. He’d find some glue later.

Steve returned with a mop and broom.

“I’ll get it,” said Bucky, standing, ignoring the pain of his foot.

Steve looked like he might argue a moment but he handed him the supplies. “You okay?”

Bucky met his gaze for the first time. It was Steve who looked away first.

“I’ll check in soon,” he said. “There’s coffee on.”

The door shut.

Sweep. Blood smeared and the glass tinkled when it fell in the bin. The smell of bleach stung his nose and killed pleasant reminders of shaving. The mop brushed the floor like a wide brush to a black and white tiled canvas. First red, then pink, then clear.

 _(It doesn’t matter,_ he thought.)

He rinsed. Kept himself from limping as he left the immaculate guest room with the mop, the broom. One sock foot. Bleach still stung his nose.

_(It doesn’t matter.)_

He held onto the supplies and stood in the kitchen. It was Spartan and clean and simple, it was like Steve. There were devices Bucky didn’t know or recognize. Steve was at the table and the smell of coffee wiped away the pungent stink from his nose.

_(It doesn’t matter.)_

It was familiar though. He thought of his old dad drinking coffee while Bucky and Becca ate their oatmeal.

_(It doesn’t matter.)_

Steve stood up and reached out. At first Bucky thought for the handles. Then Steve’s hand was wrapped heavy and warm around his and Bucky felt it – warm and wet and familiar – on his cheeks.

_(It doesn’t matter.)_

Steve was hugging him.

 _(It doesn’t matter._ )

Bucky was a man, even if his last seven years were stolen amongst seventy.

_(It doesn’t matter.)_

Bucky wanted to be himself. To pull away and laugh and joke. He opened his mouth. There was a lump in his throat.

_(It doesn’t-)_

Like he was a child, before the accident, before LeHigh, Bucky cried.


End file.
